i am from.

I am from every idea I create. I am from the idolized doctrine of a man and a woman procreating and from her loins I sprang, struggling for air and separate identity in this strange new world of black and white, broken and saved, absolute and relative.

I am from the bottle, which carried my spirit when my body no longer could. I am from the mirror; my reflection more real than myself.

I used to believe I was from a particular city and a particular set of four walls. Then, overseas, I found I am from everywhere, from all peoples and all nations. I am free from home as address.

I am from an eternal ache, evidenced by skin that breaks apart and binds back together, inchoate music on my strings, the sex of my naivete and youth, the colors I began to see when I awoke from blackout.

I am from her vow, spoken in earnest, lived so fragilely and so humanly. I am from the empty space where his arm should have looped through mine but didn’t, because “I’d rather you celibate than with a woman.” I am from that space and I am not empty, father. I am your child, and always, always will cry out my outrage of being from the dust of your brokenness.